We're all stories in the end just make it a good one
by palomina
Summary: Sometimes, on rare occasions, they'd meet to tell stories. And oh, the stories they told! About love and loss, fear and redemption, hate and forgiving, about dying and seeing loved ones die. About what families means and the feeling of loneliness. Until one day, John Watson was alone in the pub. Superwholock One-Shot.


Sooo, first of all: My first language isn't actually English, so please have mercy with me. I did my very best. Second: SPOILER WARNING!

No concrete spoilers, but Doctor who somewhere around the 10th Doctor, Supernatural is set in season 10 and Sherlock somewhere pre-Reichenbach.

Otherwise, have fun, and feel free to leave a review if you like

Sometimes, they'd just meet to tell stories. Those moments were rare and precious. Most of the time, they began with John, who, after a successful case, decided that Sherlock was in need of some company. He'd get his phone without listening to the protest of the detective (he knew they weren't sincere, because although Sherlock would never admit, he was rather fond of those meetings) and he'd call a well-known number. Sometimes, he wasn't lucky. When the Demons and Angels were up to something new or a hunt was going on, Sam would decline regretfully. And every time John would ask if everything was all right and if they needed help. And Sam would always say: No, not right now, but he'd call if it got over their heads. And both would hang up, knowing that Sam never called back and never asked for help. But John accepted that. He was no hunter and the Winchesters already had lost too many people to the life they lead… they would never drag someone in it with them… not if they could help it. Especially not a friend. So he'd wait and hope. But sometimes, sometimes Sam would say yes and ask: "Same as always?" and John would say "Sure!". And both would hang up because there was no need for more words. Sam would call the Doctor whose enthusiasm and joy were bright as a childs on Christmas Eve upon hearing Sams voice. "What date?", he'd say and Sam would name the year and day, even though he still felt a bit silly doing it. But the Doctor always came. Not necessarily at once. Sometimes it took him weeks, even years, before he had time, stranded in strange galaxies and bizarre adventures. But in the end, he was always there, and he was always in time.

Dean of course would grumble a bit because he had to dump the petite blonde, but that was no more than a fassade and his green eyes were glowing. As soon as the evening hours arrived, John and Sherlock would go into their favourite pub, order the usual and wait. Only a little later, they'd hear a soft fluttering, like wings, and Sam and Dean would walk around the corner, high on adrenaline from their last hunt, the blood sometimes barely dried on their hands. It was a thing John could have gotten used to, hadn't it been their own blood way too much. In the beginning he used to worry about the fresh cuts and bruises, but Sam and Dean only laughed. That comes with the job, they say. Sherlock on the other hand had made it his personal challenge to deduce the last hunt each time he saw them, a confident smile bright on his face when Dean tried to hide his amazement (and also a little bit his admiration.) But never would John forget the one time when neither Sam nor Dean were there, only Castiel, eyes empty and lost, telling them Dean wouldn't come. Would never do so again. It had been weeks until Sam had answered his calls again. And when he did, Dean was there as well, talking and laughing as if nothing had happened. And until this day John didn't know if he ought to thank God or devil as this story was one the brothers hadn't been ready to share yet.

Then the Doctor would come. His entrance was almost an adventure on its own, hadn't he more than once strolled in wearing futuristic, Victorian, medieval or otherwise completely unfitting clothes. But most of the guest already had gotten used to this small eccentric group of friends and the whispers had died down long ago. And on the occasions when the doctor was wearing his usual suite and coat, he seemed almost normal.

Sam and Dean would start, talking about the dark and dangerous world they grew up in. About demons and angels, ghosts and wendigos, vamps and shifters. But as well about the funny things: How Sam lost his shoe, Dean ran away from a puppy, about the tv-world of the trickster or the time Dean talked to animals. And sometimes, when they had had a few beer and the hour was already late, they'd tell the real stories. The once that really mattered. They'd talk about God and the devil, about Angels and Leviathans, about torture and the apocalypse. Their stories were sad and funny and exciting all at once. They were about betrayal and hate, about loving and forgiving. They were about dying and seeing loved once die. But above all they were about family. And sometimes, his own family would jump into Sherlocks mind, his brother and parents. And he'd feel like something was missing and he'd look at John and wonder if family maybe really was more than genes and blood.

And after these stories had exhausted themselves and their throats were raw and dry, John would begin to talk. His voice was calm and steady when he was telling his stories. Sometimes little anecdotes from their everyday life that never grew boring with Sherlock Holmes on his side, or sometimes spectacular cases with taxis and pills and swimming pools. And now and then Sherlock would interrupt him because he felt that John had left out an important detail or just plainly because he grew bored. And they'd bicker a bit whilst the others just watched, smirking a little about this beautiful, crazy and brilliant couple. And when they had finished, they'd look at the Doctor. And sometimes, he'd just smile at them, his eyes sad and heavy and they'd know they wouldn't hear a story today. But sometimes he'd talk. And when he talked, everyone was silent. And oh, the stories he told! Stories about stars and planets and galaxies far, far away, about creatures of old times and futures that never happened. He talked about brave, stupide and brilliant people, about love and loss. And all the time his eyes were the mirrors of his soul, deep like the universe, full with million and millions of voices, people he'd touched and people he'd been touched by. And they saw how old those eyes were and they could hear 900 years of war and loss, love and life in his voice.

Sometimes they sat in the pub all night, the Doctor and Sherlock lost in heated discussions about quantenphysics and the concept of time and space, discussions the others felt slightly dizzy even listening to. So they talked about ordinary things. Dean gave John advise on how to ask the cute neighbour out, whilst Sam just rolled his eyes, a fond smile betraying his action. Or sometimes they'd talk hours and hours about the art of treating a wound with whiskey and dental floss.

And when, finally, it was time to leave, they said their goodbyes wistfully and with heavy hearts, knowing that they couldn't be sure when they would be able to see each other again, or if maybe, this farewell even was their last one. Because they didn't know. They didn't know if John and Sherlock would finally meat someone who's genius matched Sherlocks, but whose morals were on the wrong side. They didn't know if the Winchesters would run into the wrong kind of monster, if the family business would finally ask his tribute. They didn't know if the Doctor would land on a planet he'd never leave.

But the curious thing was that when the day arrived, when the hour of the tenth, yes, even the eleventh had come, when Sam and Dean, not even Castiel were around anymore and when John needed his cane again, he thought he was the only one who was in grieved for a loss the whole world should mourn. The loss of those who had saved it so many times. But he wasn't. One day when he sat in the pub, sunken deep into memories and sorrow, a hand came to rest on his shoulder, and it was the barkeeper who stood behind him. And although he had never found out who these people were, this collection of so unusual friends who had been here so often over the years, he could imagine what had happened. And to his own surprise, he grieved. So he sat to John Watson at the table and said that he was sorry. And if he wanted to talk. And John smiled and asked if he had time, because this story was a long one.

The Barkeeper never knew if the stories John Watson told him from this day forth each Friday were really true, but to be honest, he didn't really care. And soon, one evening when the pub was almost empty, a young man who had come to London in the hope of a fresh start, asked if he could join them. And so more and more people started listen to Johns stories and although John never forgot the pain of his loss, he was, to his own amazement happy. Because although his friends were gone, they never would be forgotten. Not really.


End file.
